


Hold it Against Him

by forcepair



Category: The Royals (TV 2015)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gender Ambiguous as much as possible, Housemates, Philanthropy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 20:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14776697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forcepair/pseuds/forcepair
Summary: “It’s about time you came back here. Good ol’ Judas’s rejected better-looking cousin is running this godforsaken hellhole.”Your palms pressed flat on your hips indignantly, looking straight dead ahead of the nearest commodity that’s a million times tolerable—a portrait of Queen Mathilda I—than his stupid face. Not to mention that didn’t smell like it had been doused with buckets of chocolate-scented (flavored?) lubricants. Yes, you knew of that thanks to that birthday party that Len threw for you a long time ago, and no, you weren’t proud of that familiarity, to begin with.“So, I was told.”“You’re lucky you weren’t here when this place frolicked through seven circles of Dante’s Inferno eyebags like a merry-go-round,” he snarled, looming over you in attempt to intimidate.So much for a welcoming committee.





	Hold it Against Him

**Author's Note:**

> Nobody has done a robert x reader, so I've decided that I'd do God's work.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an instant, you felt the regret of waking up to this day, booking the flight, reading the Queen of England's e-mail, and coming back to the Palace.

“This place is weird,” was the first thing you observed upon entering Blenheim Palace for the first time since last two years ago, a small line of attendants trailing behind and carrying your luggage in tow.

 

Almost nobody had been baffled by the recent threat on the king’s life several hours ago before you could even set a foot on British soil. This was the second threat, the first being at South London, and now it’s at close range, but the goddamned palace staff of House Henstridge was currently behaving as if nothing happened.

 

It’s either a direct command from the royal family in order to avoid the nosy press or His Majesty is used at being put into life-and-death situations.

 

You were frazzled by the fact that your childhood friend almost died once again. So when the moment you had received a personal message from the Queen Mother, you didn’t hesitate to postpone your flight to your transient office in the Amalfi Coast from your stay in Los Angeles and rush back to the palace within four hours, courtesy of the Royal Family's jet she had sponsored.

 

In the seventh hour, you had arrived at a too casual atmosphere. No security check-up rounds and reevaluation of the staff.

 

Strutting towards you like he still owned the palace was the recently dethroned uncle of the family. “You can say that again,” he drawled distastefully.

 

You took a double take at him to ensure that this is really Cyrus _bloody_ Henstridge because never once in your life you thought that both of you would actually agree on something common.

 

“Ah, Your Highness,” you greeted with a curtsy without much panache, to which he rolled his eyes at. _Ah, there he is_. Your entourage scurried away with a curtsy of their own as Cyrus slowly stalked around you, eyeing you like you is a prey and he’s a fucking vulture of some sorts.

 

“It’s about time you came back here. Good ol’ Judas’s rejected better-looking cousin is running this godforsaken hellhole.”

 

Apparently, this man hadn’t moved on from that incident. In one of the late King Simon’s dinner parties, you managed to accidentally trip him and poured a century-old wine all over the former Deputy Prime Minister’s favorite dress shirt. Cyrus lusted for the poor man after getting turned on at the latter’s speech during the last round of British Parliamentary Debate. But you had been playing Truth or Dare with kids of notable parents who indulged watching esteemed political figures being put into undesirable situations. You couldn’t bring up the reason of accepting the dare in order to avoid that nosy daughter of a viscount of some county that tried to coerce you into spilling a tasteful confession about god knows what.

 

Since then, he would always make sure that you’d get hypertension every chance he has.

 

Your palms pressed flat on your hips indignantly, looking straight dead ahead of the nearest commodity that’s a million times tolerable—a portrait of Queen Mathilda I—than his stupid face. Not to mention that it didn’t smell like it had been doused with buckets of chocolate-scented ( _flavored?_ ) lubricants. Yes, you knew of that thanks to that birthday party Len threw for you a long time ago, and no, you weren’t proud of that familiarity, to begin with.

 

“So, I was told.”

 

“You’re lucky you weren’t here when this place frolicked through seven circles of Dante’s Inferno eyebags like a merry-go-round,” he snarled, looming over you in attempt to intimidate.

 

So much for a welcoming committee.

 

But you weren’t swayed by this. Or whatever insult or blame he had on you. Arms folded across your chest and gaze forced to fix on the late Queen Mathilda’s scowling face, you shot back, “I was quite expecting you in a guillotine, but I believe that more you're than thrilled to be choking on someone's—“ You take a strong whiff of the chocolaty scent (heavenly, but the context was enough for you to disregard that), wrinkling your nose “—Oh, for Christ’s sake, sire, I can smell the hourly newsletter subscription of your brothel all over you.”

 

Instead, he sensually swiped his finger across the column of his neck, then sucked it while maintaining eye contact; which created an uncomfortable shiver wracking down your spine. “It’s custom made, sweetheart,” he said, pleased that he had actually made you disgusted. With that, he merrily pranced out of your sight.

 

In an instant, you felt the regret of waking up to this day, booking the flight, reading the Queen of England's e-mail, and coming back to the Palace.

 

Rachel, stoic as ever, stood in front of the corridor in the far-end of the room across the one which Cyrus had gone. “The Queen will be seeing you now,” she announced, hands neatly folded behind her back.

 

Before a sigh could even escape your lips, you nodded, feeling the dread of your homecoming weighed on top of you whenever you move. With that, the head assistant led you to numerous hallways until you've reached the Queen's private chambers.

 

"Her Majesty wishes to speak to you alone," said Rachel when you had noticed she made no move to follow you inside.

 

"Alright," you managed, short out of breath, and the door closed behind you.

 

Much to your surprise and concern, Helena Henstridge was thrown out of her own infamous bravado usually intended for guests such as you. She sat restlessly on the loveseat with her luxurious brown curls slightly in disarray as if she had spent the last few hours tugging them and her blue eyes twitching from probably of the thousands of thoughts she had as you meet her gaze.

 

This was a completely contrasting version of her that you had seen before this visit, it amazed you on how much two years could do to a person, and one way or another, Helena might have the same thoughts as you.

 

One more thing that amazes you about her was how cool her voice sounded and how straight her back was despite the fiasco.

 

"Ah, just who I wanted. Long time no see. Please, sit," Helena said, standing upright to acknowledge your presence.

 

You knew the countless times she had requested to treat her anything but a queen years ago, so you hadn't bother to give a curtsy, only proceeded to obey her by sitting on the other loveseat in front of her.

 

For a considerable amount time, the two of you simply sat in silence, drinking your favorite tea that Helena ordered for your homecoming treat, but you allowed her to experience this moment of silence. You've never seen her so quiet and deep in thought that she might burst if you said the wrong thing.

 

Then, she gracefully set down her teacup and looked at you. "So, how's your vacation?"

 

"Quite fulfilling," you shared enthusiastically. Your palms cradled a warm cup of newly-poured tea, its intoxicating fragrant steam reaching your nostrils and soothing your frazzled nerves. "I never thought that I could go around the world and do charity work to make myself useful than to sit still and look elegant."

 

Helena hummed appreciatively. She understood where that statement was coming from since you both were raised in above aristocracy as you are the sole child of the Duke of Devonshire. But you wanted more than that since you were only and technically significant due to your birthright, you wanted to make a difference by your own accord.

 

After you had signed paperwork, negotiated with your parents, then left Great Britain, you organized a myriad of events ranging from auctions, casino games, and to concerts which all the proceeds would go to charity organizations, mainly for mental health institutions of both local and international. You made your family proud and put their name in good light, and so did the world (as told by your associates).

 

"You and Eleanor would finally get along. She did almost the same." When you tilted your head in confusion, she clarified, "My daughter worked abroad to put her talents to good use. It's all over the tabloids."

 

An apologetic smile curled your lips. "I avoided the world as much as possible, even when I came back." And, the world meant a social media detox. You survived and kept in touch through letters and newspapers, but allowed e-mails and texts to a minimum capacity.

 

"That would explain why Robbie had a hard time reaching out to you when he came back."

 

"There's so much happening to him all at once, I didn't want to be another matter that he needed to attend to."

 

"You sure it wasn't because of a broken heart?" There was something in Helena's look that made you feel that she knows your feelings better than you did. It's a maternal instinct, and your familial relationship of her resulted into having that on you.

 

But you didn't answer, afraid whether it would be a yes or a no. Truth is, you didn't know, and you don't plan on finding it out. Instead, you gave another smile, uncertain, lifted, then lowered your teacup on the saucer.

 

Helena sighed, her palms placed flat on her thighs. "Two broken hearts, then," she muttered. Abruptly, she pushed herself up and stood, looking like powerful and graceful enough that she could take over the world. "Now, let's get down to business."

 

"Right, of course."

 

"My son held a loaded gun to my other son," she said dreadfully, more to herself rather than you.

 

You nodded dolefully.

 

"My son held a loaded gun to my other son, in front of me," Helena repeated as if to shake herself towards reality. "Then, we have to be at our utmost British-ness and pretend nothing happened. I have to act that that didn't happen, that I didn't see the fear in Robert's eyes, the pure wrath that's tearing apart Liam, and the hurt of my daughter."

 

You kept your gaze at the amber liquid in the cup you held, heavy with the words and turmoil of your godmother. At this point, you didn't know what you could offer and what Helena thought that you could offer to the family. Although you are the favorite of House Henstridge, it may be a controversial pedestal you'd been put on, but you would do anything for the family you've grown up with.

 

"What can I do to make it... alright," you asked with another level of uncertainty if it was the right thing to say.

 

There was a movement in front of you, you looked up and your eyes flung wide open. The esteemed current Queen of England was kneeling, begging, in front of you. She took your hands in hers with a silent plea that even she couldn't believe her own actions.

 

In another life, you would've been baffled by the thought that the Queen was begging for your help. In this current life, you were simply growing more and more concerned for your godmother's state.

 

"I know this is going to be very difficult for you as you're not a professional, yet this is our most desperate hour."

 

"Of course, anything you need."

 

"I want you to diagnose if Liam has any..." she gestured vaguely at her head, "Or under the influence of... _y'know_ ," she tried awkwardly, making you raise an eyebrow.

 

"If he's under the influence of crack?

 

Helena sighed in surrender. "If my son has some sort of mental health thingy going on."

 

Your eyes blinked, once, then twice. Leaning backward, you considered her carefully. You had interactions in several mental institutions as part of your advocacy, though it didn't mean that you had an extensive knowledge like a professional.

 

Her grip on your hands tightened. "Look, we can't afford to call a psychiatrist since we're avoiding this matter from the hands of the press. It would certainly drive my son madder, so I reached out to the closest and most trusted person that had working close to mental health institutions."

 

"I didn't exactly work with them, Aunt Helena," you protested. "I'm simply a philanthropist covering the expenses of patients who couldn't afford the bills."

 

"Please, just talk to him like those psychiatrists. See that if he has any odd behaviors because Liam had gone through a lot of pressure since Robert's alleged death. Our new head of security, James Hill, had already interrogated him, though I don't feel that it's enough. So, what do you say?"

 

You eyed her for a moment before drawing out a long breath; your answer was sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT:  
> "I don't need brandy! It tastes like iced tea, _iced_ tea," she growled as if the very idea of iced tea brought dishonor to this Palace.


End file.
